


A New Life in the West

by Ghostmedic



Series: A New Life in The West [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Country & Western, Gen, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostmedic/pseuds/Ghostmedic
Summary: Forced out of his home and sent to the west. This is a tale of a young boy named James Wright. Forced out of his home and headed to the the untamed west James faces a  journey where the unknown is always just past the horizon. He will soon discover that the west never needed to be tamed and that the wide open plains is where he feels at home the most.
Series: A New Life in The West [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701364





	A New Life in the West

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a short story that I wrote for a pen pal. It was only meant to be about two pages long and yet somehow my fingers got away from me. I started to do tons of research and I feel in love with the idea of a grand adventure. This isn't my first attempt at something this large, but I hope that I have the drive to finish it someday. I hope you enjoy it in all its infancy.

Chapter 1 

The Burden

“Come on... get up and at em boys. These cows aint goin to drive themselves”! I let the words bounce inside my head for a couple moments before the realization that my day had begun. I tried to remember where I was, but after a swift and sudden kick to my mid-section, I instantly recollected. 

“GOD DAMMIT I was just taking a moment” I exclaimed. The soft sunlight blurred my vision as my dear friend and worst enemy, Carl dragged my cover away. “You better not get any of those damn cockleberries on my blanket”. God, I hated those things. The last time I dropped my roll into the grass I spent the next week learning how to sleep while being stabbed. 

Carl seemed to pay my words no mind as he continued to drag my blanket through a patch of spear grass. Carl let the blanket slide out of his fingers and shouted “your burning daylight, if I wanted to work with some no good, city slicker I would of brought my wife. At least the nights would be warmer”.

“Oh shut up Carl, no one wants to hear your rambling. We all know your wife left you years before, on account of your snoring and unsightly appearance”. 

From the other side of the wagon the trail boss Mr. Anderson let loose an intimidating roar “will the both of just shut up for once. I knew I should of brought those Thomas boys. Y’all are nothing but a bunch of nagging Nancies. Do you have to do this every morning”?

Carl retorted quickly with a meek “no sir, sorry sir. We was just having a bit of fun”.

The morning proceeded just like any other morning for the past two weeks. As I rolled up by bed roll and put on my boots, I couldn’t help but wonder why I was always the last to rise? I always considered myself to be a light sleeper. Turns out I managed to hop on the one crew full of a bunch of Indians pretending to be cowboys. The trail cook, Mr. Smith had breakfast hot and ready for us at the crack of dawn. The man was more dependable than the sun. It was a simple breakfast of bacon, sourdough biscuits and gravy laid out in a round piece of tin, one would have a hard time calling a proper plate. I sat down on the grass and leaned back against my saddle and tried to enjoy the view. The flat plains of the Nebraska territory laid out before me in a way that can only be described as, an endless sea of flat and brown. I gave out a slight chuckle, sometimes the simple descriptions reveal the truth more effectively than any poet could. This is about as far east as I’ve been in quite some time. I pictured myself back when I was a 17-year-old lawyer’s son, sitting in my family’s new town house in Omaha.

I was sitting in the study, reading the new book by Walt Whitman _Leaves of Grass_. I often bragged about it to my neighbor Misses Chapman. My father had connections to Mr. Whitman after working a case in Boston for his publisher. This book was the last connection to proper civilization we had after losing the wagon to the raging waters of some otherwise forgettable stream. My father managed to procure it during our last days in my childhood home in Boston. I miss home, the cobbled streets, the smell of the ocean, and my most importantly my friends. Too many of them never made it back home.

My father was adamant that I was not to join the war. Several of my friends enlisted and lied about their age, hell some didn’t even lie; they were taking anybody they could get. In the beginning of the war we would often talk about how they would return back home with smiling faces and fantastic stories of adventure and bravery. The reality of the world had different plans. It pained me to look into their eyes of those that returned. Those that survived carried memories that would weigh heavy on the toughest of men, and these were not men, but boys. They regarded me as a stranger and as a coward, and they were not the only ones. I was too young to be drafted and too much of a coward to go against the wishes of my father. I was happy when my father told us about the upcoming move to Omaha. He recently had been given an offer of employment from the Union Pacific Railroad. My father was confident that the war would soon be over, and he wanted to start a new life. Soon the long-forgotten dream of a trans-continental railroad would be reinvigorated and give hope to the broken Nation. A rattle of a passing wagon outside my window brought me back to my senses and to the present. I looked down at my book and gladdened to see that the words were still as black as night and the pages as white as the day they rolled off the press. In a world of shit, at least this was pristine.

_“Victory, union, faith, identity, time,_

_The indissoluble compacts, riches, mystery,_

_Eternal progress, the kosmos, and the modern reports._

_This then is life,_

_Here is what has come to the surface after so many throes and convulsions._

_How curious! How real!_

_Underfoot the divine soil, overhead the sun._

_See revolving the globe,_

_The ancestor-continents away group’d together,_

_The present and future continents north and south, with the isthmus between._

_See, vast trackless spaces,_

_As in a dream they change, they swiftly fill,_

_Countless masses debouch upon them,_

_They are now cover’d with the foremost people, arts, Institutions, known._

_See, projected through time,_

_For me an audience interminable._

_With firm and regular step they wend, they never stop,_

_Successions of men, Americanos, a hundred millions,_

_One generation playing its part and passing on,_

_Another generation playing its part and passing on in its turn,_

_With faces turn’d sideways or backward towards me to listen,_

_With eyes retrospective towards me.”_

_-Walt Whitman_

As I tried to digest and absorb those words; I heard my father's steps echo through the house. They seemed to be slightly different today. As if my father was not walking in the comfort of his own home, but with a determined walk, full of a desire to successfully complete his task. They were soon accompanied by those of my mother. They grew louder and louder as they walked closer. I became fraught with worry. I knew that this would not be good. My mind raced with things that may have warranted me my parents’ wrath. My mind knew not. I have been a good son. I have always done my chores and my leisure time was spent reading in the study, instead of those other less civilized local boys who were always up to no good. It seemed everyone my age with a semblance of discipline and nobility joined the Union Army. I tried to relax, but I just continued to tense.

My father went up to me and gently threw a newspaper at my lap. I fumbled to catch it. Why would he give me a newspaper? I was quite perplexed and after a quick examination I noticed that the paper was dated on October 1864. That was when we first came to Omaha. I then noticed that there was an advertisement circled, but before I could read it my father spoke “Son your mother and I have been putting some thought to your situation and we have decided its time for you to stand up on your own two feet. That there is a newspaper bearing an advertisement from the Circle Song ranch looking for hired hands. It's on the western side of the Nebraska Territory along the Platte River. I’ve been having correspondence with a Mr. Gunderson and he has agreed to take you on "

My father paused for a moment and looked toward me expecting some sort of reaction, but I was just so shocked. I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what was happening. I glanced at my mother for reassurance that this was all one big joke, but her face gave away no semblance of human emotion. She has been that way since we received word of Sherman’s March. She was raised in Savannah and she has had no contact with her family since the war first began. She became distraught with worry and the horrible tales of Sherman’s March only seemed to make her worse. Part of me wanted to believe that she was still there behind those stranger’s eyes, but she was simply a shadow of her former self. 

My father let out a sigh and with a slight mutter stated “Tomorrow you will be leaving on the next train to Grand Island and then you will board a coach to Ft. Laramie. From there Mr. Gunderson will escort you to your new place of employment”.

My mouth began to open and stammer “but..bu..”, but my father's stern glare quickly made me silent. The way he told me that this was my last day with my family was unbearably cruel. As if he was simply asking me to go and fetch the post. I again looked to my mother for comfort, but her face remained as stoic as ever. I gave a sigh of defeat and with a great loss of posture I looked at the circled advertisement

MEN WANTED FOR HAZARDOUS WORK

The Circle Song Ranch located near Ft. Casper Nebraska Territory is seeking young men for full time employment for a period of 2 years. Meals and lodging will be provided for.

LITERATE HANDS 22$ PER MONTH

EXPERIENCE HANDS 20$ PER MONTH

INEXPERIENCE HANDS 10$ PER MONTH

My parents continued to gaze towards me. My mother spoke with the softest whisper “You must go to your room and start packing what you need. It's going to be a long day tomorrow”. 

With the paper still in my hand I begrudgingly walked to my room. I sat down upon my bed and looked at the advertisement. Why? Why would they do this to me? My mind raced through a million scenarios and even a couple escape plans. I could just leave this house and head back to Boston. Surely I would be able to hop on a train. I don’t have any money for a ticket, but my father keeps 20$ in the chamber of his Henry Rifle above the mantle. That would surely be enough for me to live off of, at least until I can find employment in the civilized world. I looked down at the newspaper again. The Circle Song ranch… Those symbols must be the ranches brand. They reminded me of a drum playing a single note. Probably not even a loud note. Just a single tap. To others that single strike of the drum may be an endless string of taps as the sound echoes through the endless emptiness of the world.

The next day with my bags packed I waited near the front door. I was indifferent to the world around me and simply going through the motions. Just a body with little to no mind of its own. My dad turned the corner and was carrying a shoe box covered with brown paper and held together with a rough rope. He didn’t say anything, but instead just opened the door. My father with his mysterious package and myself holding a single suitcase excited our house on 13th street. The frigid air turned our breath to steam and we began walking.

Omaha was still a place that I had trouble calling a town. It certainly wasn’t Boston. Some people liked my father called this the gateway to the west. It looked more like the heart of the west to me. The buildings in Omaha were mostly made of wood and built within the last couple years, or even within the last couple days. The sounds of the constant hammering often gave me a headache. Oh, how I missed the feel of cobbles under my feet. Here if there were walkways they were made of wood and seemed to amplify the sound of every step as if it was a bass drum. When there wasn’t a walkway there was, more often than not, the mud. I don’t know how it was always wet, and part of me didn’t want to know. On the other side of the street sat one of the few brick buildings in the whole of Omaha. The Harold Building was a sign that civilization was just a matter of time. The top of the building was adorned with several big signs. Most were advertisements for the clothing store, but the one that caught my eye consisted of big black letters “Omaha Daily Herald''. I once held on to a dream that I would soon become a member of such an establishment. I would be responsible for bringing the news of the world to those that have never seen it, and to even those that couldn’t comprehend just how large and different the world was. In a world of dirt and mud, I would write the words that brought civilization.

The Herald Building was soon past my peripheries, and I yearned to turn my head and just give it one last glance. I gave into my desires and every few seconds I would watch the building become smaller and smaller. Eventually, it was beyond my sight entirely and after several blocks we took a right on California Street. From here it would be a straight shot towards the train station. Kind of funny actually. Despite my father’s hard work, it was still impossible to go to California by train, and yet here we are. Using California to get to the train. We walked together with an unfathomable distance between us. My mind raced with thousands of words I could have used to break the silence, but the distance between use was already too large to be bridged by utterance of simple words. As we got closer the skyline filled up with smoke as the coal engines from the trains and the ferries on the Missouri went about their daily business. Then there was the noise. The sound of civilization and innovation filled me with a strange sense of pride. The future is now. Just think about all those poor souls who made trips forever chasing the horizon in nothing, but several pieces of wood pulled by a beast of burden. Truly man is the master of the world.

Then the station filled my vision. The dirty pillars stood as still and stoic as my absent mother. The wide halls echoed with the voices and steps of my fellow travelers. My suitcase grew heavy and my heart began to beat through my chest. A voice inside my head told me that this would be the last time I would ever see Omaha again. We located my train with plenty of time to spare. 

My father looked down at me and simply held out the mysterious package. His last words ever said to me were “this should keep you safe”. After relieving him of his burden he turned and began to walk towards the house.

I sat on the empty train and just tried to bring myself to reality. The past day was a blur. Did that really happen? Am I really on this train, and headed for a place I have never even heard of? Time ceased to have any meaning to me. Before I knew it the once empty train wasn’t quite as empty. People were scattered. It seemed like there weren't many trying to reach further west. As the train started to lurch forward, I glanced down at the brown package. Gently grasped the rope and carefully undid the knot. I carefully opened the shoe box my father gave me. Inside was a pristine gun belt was a large revolver, two small sacks, a powder horn, and a note.

_Son,_

_I know that I have failed you as a father. I have failed at many things in my life. I am a man of excuses. I feel that this is the best thing for you. When you reach Grand Island you will look for an Overland Stagecoach with the driver who goes by the name of Mr. Simmons. He has already been paid and will provide you with meals for the weeklong journey to Ft. Laramie. Once there you will meet Mr. Gunderson and begin the next chapter of your life. May God be with you._

_Full of regret,_

_Thomas Wright_

I crumpled the note and let it drop into my lap. My father was always a man who paid more attention to his work than his family, but he never acted this way before. For the life of me I failed to see the logic of his actions. Just then I heard a voice that seemed to be directed towards me. I looked up and meet the eyes of an old man. He had a large bushy beard that seemed to cover most of his face and neck. His clothes were fine, but well-traveled. The once black coat was covered with dust and was faded due to many hours in the sun. “I said boy what you got there”. 

I grabbed the pistol by its grip and withdrew it from the holster “I’m not sure… I’ve never been one to pay much attention to these sorts of things”. 

The old man reached out his hand and said, “well give it here, i'll take a gander at it”. I gently set it in his hand. He took it towards his chest and examined it carefully. 

After only a few seconds he explained “well boy, this seems to be an Army Colt .44 revolver. It’s certainly a fine handgun. It's a standard issue for our boys in blue. If you treat it right it will treat you the same”.

He handed it back to me. It was an unfamiliar weight and it seemed very cold. My hand didn’t even want to handle it. Upon seeing my unfamiliarity and fear of the weapon the old man said, “has anyone ever taught you how to use that”? 

I silently shook my head side to side. The old man let out a loud exhale and stood up, “well it's high time you learn. It looks like we're far enough out of town. There is a flatbed car a ways back and it's time someone made a man out of you. My name is Bill by the way” He held out his hand and I was reluctant to take it, but I was in dire need of a friend.

The wind howled as the train made its way west. Me and Bill stood on the car platform totally exposed to the brisk Oklahoma air. In my hand was my Colt .44. Bill was trying to teach me the proper way to hold it, but it was almost like he was speaking another language. His patience was becoming thin. He exhaled “oh lord oh mighty boy, I knew 6-year olds that took to this faster''. 

He reached into his vest and withdrew a massive cannon. “Now look here, this is a Colt Walker. It’s a similar design to yours, but this is made of a wrought iron, while yours is made of silver steel. They are the same caliber, but the walker was made for a man who knows how to handle oneself. This model is like a 2-dollar whore. Large unwieldy and if you don’t treat it kindly, you’re likely to lose a hand. Now, you want to hold it like it’s an angry puppy. Tight enough to not let it escape, but not enough to strangle it. Now you want one-foot bracing for the recoil and pointing to your left, and the other pointing at what you be shooting at. Arms outstretched with your elbows slightly bent. Then you pull the hammer back, line up the sights, and then pull the trigger” Just then a deafening roar erupted in my ears and a bright flash appeared at the end of Bill’s barrel.

He made it seem so simple. I just couldn’t understand how it was so difficult. I felt like a stranger in my own body. Bill placed his weapon back into his vest. I saw the obvious deformity in the contours of his clothing, and I was curious how I failed to see it before. He gave a little smirk and confidently said “ok boy, now it's your turn. I want you to do the same thing. Only difference is that yours ain't loaded”.

I grabbed my Cold .44 with my right hand trying to mimic his. It felt heavy and the barrel seemed like it was too large to handle well. Bill took hold of my hand and roughly repositioned my grip. He kicked my left foot and forced it to its proper placement. 

He then placed a reassuring hand on my back and leaned me forward. He spoke to me softly “Now with your thumb I want you to draw back that hammer”. I extended my thumb and it touched the cold metal. I tried to pull back, but it seemed to resist me. 

Bill's voice filled my ear “don’t be scared to use both hands if you need to, just be sure you don’t point at anything you don’t want dead”. My left hand came to my rescue, and the hammer fell back with a very satisfying click.

Bill once again relayed some additional instruction “now close your left eye… you see the notch on the hammer… now you want to put that prong at the end of the barrel in the middle of those two notches. Be sure to keep the tops flush with each other”. I had a hard time making the minute changes. The barrel just seemed to keep dipping down to the ground. 

Eventually I managed to tame the beast and was able to hold the position for several breaths. With barely a whisper bill said, “now it's time to pull the trigger”.

The cold steel resisted my efforts. My hand shook with the effort to pull the trigger, I tried to keep the sights lined up, but every correction I made just seemed to make it worse. After what seemed to be an eternity the hammer fell forward with a very audible and satisfying click.

Bill just said “ok now just keep working on that. We’ll make you a bonified lead slinger with two shakes of a lamb’s tail”. Well I’ve never worked with lambs before, but I don’t think two shakes of a lamb's tail is a good measure of time for this scenario. We stood there dry firing my revolver for almost an hour. We even spent a surprising amount of time fitting my belt to my waist. Trying to find a comfortable position where I could draw my pistol and still walk normally was a bit challenging. Bill assured me that eventually it will just be comfortable.

My hand was cramping, and my eyes were starting to itch and water. It was getting difficult to focus on the never-ending prairie. Bill saw my discomfort and took out a small flask. He took a long drink and gave out a satisfied exhale followed by “it's time for a break. Want a swig”? 

Without a word I reached out my hand and took the flask from his hand. I put the cold metal to my mouth and let it fall down my throat. Now... I have drunk spirits more than a handful of times in my lifetime, but this wasn’t familiar to anything I have tasted before. My body instantly rejected the flaming liquid. I coughed, I sputtered, and it seemed like my face no longer wanted to hold any liquid. Struggling for breath and eyes watering I handed back to the now laughing Bill. It took him several moments too long before he managed to regain some sense of composure and took the flask.

If glares could kill… Bill would not have much time left. I managed to force out a couple words “you could have warned me. What is that”? Bill gave a little smirk.

His eyes seemed to be stuck in some long-ago memory and simply said “it’s a family recipe. Let me know if you want to try again and put some hair on your chest. Let’s head back inside and sit a while”.

Once we were seated in our original seats, he began teaching how to load the pistol and how to properly care for it. The weapon came with its own fair share of work. The loading process was lengthy, and the measurement of the black powder was both exact and a total guess. The possible repercussions for pouring too much or not enough seemed dire. “but how do I know how much is the right amount”? I questioned. 

Bill just kind of gave a shrug and stated that “You figure it out after a while. It just feels right. Now back to cleaning. This goes for pretty much anything in life. If you take care of your equipment, it will take care of you. If you fire it, be sure to clean it before you clean it before you fire it again. It's not much of a problem when the barrel is still hot, but once it cools. It's best to clean out all that powder. Water and rags work, but vinegar and oil work best. It may seem tiring, but your life may one day depend on this ol .44 and on that day, you do not want a dirty tool”.

We didn’t laugh much, tell tall tales and we didn’t talk about each other’s lives or even where we were from. Hell he never even asked for my name. He just referred to me as boy. Bill seemed to only care to teach me how to properly use my father’s farewell gift. It was refreshing to talk to him, and I felt the weight gradually begin to lift from my shoulders. That feeling ended when I got off the train at Grand Island and said our farewells. He turned to face the other direction and walked away. The steps he made boomed on the wooden platform and eventually they just blended in with the rest. I was once again all alone.


End file.
